


Shot in the Dark

by Koren M (CyberMathWitch)



Series: The Weight of Us [3]
Category: Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Backstory, Canon-Typical Violence, Explicit Language, F/M, First Meetings, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-30
Updated: 2012-10-30
Packaged: 2017-11-17 10:02:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/550376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CyberMathWitch/pseuds/Koren%20M
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In her life there comes a moment.  A moment when survival is no longer enough.  A moment to say "I choose to <i>live</i>.  A moment that changes everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I cannot thank all my cheerleaders and beta readers enough for this. This exists because of y'all, and your input. In particular (and I hope to god that I don't forget anyone!): Kadollan, Anuna, SidheRa and Lar_Laughs.
> 
> I had all these rambly thoughts about how this came about, but they've all left my brain. This is my headcanon, and is the cornerstone of a much larger story (I hope). This stuff doesn't happen in a vacuum though, and I'm really, really blessed to have an awesome community of people at [Be-Compromised](http://be-compromised.livejournal.com) who have absolutely helped me shape this story. So everyone at the comm? This is for you. :D
> 
> I always work with music, and that's no exception here. I strongly suggest/urge/beg of you to go listen to this: [Shake it Out ~ Florence + the Machine](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RCWnVznnWcs) \- this song, the original album version in particular, is very much Natasha's voice for me, at this point in her life. It's her redemption song, because this is her redemption story. It's the voice of someone who wants a life she can truly live, instead of a shadow life and a shadow self.
> 
>  
> 
> **Many, many thanks as well to my awesome artist, TaleWeaver for the amazing mix (found[here](http://nessataleweaver.livejournal.com/26910.html).)**

_**February, 1998 ~ Ft. Leavenworth, Kansas, USA** _

The suit wasn’t an unusual sight in such a place, although he was more used to seeing JAGs dressed in uniform. But normally the people wearing them didn’t move like that, like Clint himself did. Like they’d had training, way above and beyond standard military or FBI issue. This guy was dangerous, even though he looked completely unassuming. 

“28564, you’re up,” the guard called, and Clint assumed the position to wait for the manacles to be snapped on and the cell doors to unlock. The guard kept eying him sideways as if he expected him to go off at any moment. They didn’t know what exactly he was or why he was there, but they knew that the prisoners with numbers instead of names were extremely dangerous, and not to be underestimated.

The room he was led to was a standard interrogation room, but as soon as he was chained to the bolts on the floor and table, the suit nodded at the MPs who reluctantly left the room. The door shut behind them with a resounding clang, and Clint narrowed his eyes at the guy, because that was absolutely not approved procedure.

“Specialist Clinton Francis Barton, previously serving with Special Operations unlisted unit number 5, primary focus the former Eastern Bloc. Am I correct, so far?” the man smiled, very pleasantly, completely at odds with where the were and who he had to be to have that kind of information. It was the first time in two months that Clint had heard his name spoken aloud.

“Yes, sir,” he replied, tight lipped. “And you are?” He saw no reason to afford this guy, or anyone else any particular respect at this point, except possibly for the judge if he ever had an actual court martial. Which wasn’t likely.

“Agent Phil Coulson, of SHIELD. That’s Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division. It’s a mouthful, I know. We’re working on that.” 

The guy was positively grinning without actually changing the set of his mouth, and Clint had no idea what to make of it. 

“Never heard of it.”

“I didn’t think you had. Few people have, until they have reason to. Which you now do.”

Clint just arched an eyebrow.

“Do you have a problem with killing, Mr. Barton?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Do you have a problem with killing? Other people, I mean.”

“Is this a trick question? You’ve obviously got my file - probably my whole file, right there. You know what I’ve done, officially and apparently unofficially.”

“I suppose the better question is, do you enjoy killing?”

“Not as such.”

“But you don’t mind it.”

“Not if it needs to be done. Some people need to be neutralized,” he settled on finally, falling back on their unit’s official terminology.

“But not everyone?”

Clint wasn’t sure what the guy was getting at, or if this was just another attempt to try and interrogate him about what his unit had done. In either case, he was tired of it, tired of being in limbo about his future, and just plain tired of his fucked up life. “Look, mister-”

“Agent Coulson will be fine.”

“Agent Coulson. Whatever. Do I lose sleep at night if I kill a guy who was selling biologics to some two-bit warlord in a backwater town of Estonia? No. Do I mind being told to take out a Ukrainian drug lord who’s probably responsible for hundreds of dead bodies and thousands of addicts? Again, no. Do I think there are innocent people out there who should be protected and kept the fuck out of it? Hell yes. I'm not willing to take innocent civillian lives. I wouldn’t have triggered the damn charges if I’d know there were still kids in that building, but it’s too late now. Is that what you wanted to know? Is that enough information for you? Can you fucking suits and brass just go ahead and make up your goddamn minds about what you’re going to do with me, and get it the fuck over with?” The weeks of confinement, of not being able to get out of the damn cell were finally getting to him, he decided.

“Yes, thank you. I was hoping you would say that.” At Clint’s startled expression, he continued, now smiling a true smile from ear to ear. Clint felt a bit like he’d somehow ended up through the looking glass. “Mr. Barton, on behalf of SHIELD, I’d like to offer you a job. You have a particular skill set we’re very interested in.”

“Really. Because the army’s short on snipers these days?”

“No. Because you have a unique combination of abilities, including but not limited to your accuracy, along with a personality profile that exactly matches what we’re looking for. We know what you can do with a bow and arrow, as well as with a variety of firearms, about your affinity for languages, your high IQ, and most importantly, that you have a remarkably stable psychiatric profile for someone who is willing and able to kill. SHIELD isn’t in the business of collateral damage, Mr. Barton.”

“What business are you in?”

“Espionage. Global monitoring of various types of threats. Both long term and short term missions ranging from the occasional "smash and grab" to more lengthy, deep cover operations. Our goal, as our name describes, is to keep the world safe from as much and as many of the dangers out there as we can. We think you would make an excellent agent, Mr. Barton. If you’re willing to leave all of this behind you.”

He looked down at the chains around his wrists and ankles, then back up at the smiling man in the suit.

“Why the hell not. On one condition,” he continued, as Coulson started to hand him a folder. 

“We're not in the business of making bargains.”

“Tough. One condition, that’s it. When it comes down to it, I decide whether or not to take the shot. Period.”

Coulson looked slightly surprised, but also still pleased. “I think that can be arranged. Welcome to SHIELD, Agent Barton.”

*****

_**Early August, 1999 ~ Odesa, Ukraine** _

She heard the rattling click of a an old fan, struggling fruitlessly against the hot, sticky air. It niggled at the back of her brain like an irritating gnat buzzing in her ear and she burrowed her face further into the pillows, but sleep had already slipped too far away to reclaim.

“ _Bozhe moĭ,_ ” she cursed softly and slid her hands down from her pillow and underneath her chest to push herself up onto her elbows.

It was wet and sticky.

Something was _not_ right.

It was as if feeling that odd sensation allowed her brain to process other things that didn’t fit with the proper order of the world, like the smell. Sweet and coppery, with a sickly undertone. The light didn't seem to be coming from the right direction, and there was a weight in the bed next to her but she had no idea who it could be. There was the fuzzy recollection of being in the hotel lounge the night before, and a man trying to be charming...

She opened her eyes.

The man lying next to her on the bed was very, very dead. His throat gaped at her in a gruesome parody of a smile and blood had spilled from the wound and soaked through the sheets. It had seeped into her nightgown and she could see red staining part of her hair.

The screams were somehow lodged in her throat, and wouldn’t make it past her clenched teeth. She made no sound at all. It felt like an eternity until she could force herself up onto her knees to scuttle across the bed, then she didn't stop moving until her back hit the far wall. She dragged her knees up to her chest and tucked her forehead against them so that she wouldn't have to keep looking at him. 

She started to shiver, but it wasn't from the fan cooling the room. It was the same man she'd seen, who'd talked to her and bought her a drink the night before. She could remember his hand on her arm, her cheek, dancing with him to the piano and some song she didn't know. She could even remember thinking that spending the night with him would be a pleasant diversion and he might have information she could use, and that she'd nodded when he'd invited her upstairs. She could not remember how he'd died, or what they'd done. Her hands were stained red. She shook and wondered if she was going to fly apart at the seams.

It had happened again.

She'd made it a full four months this time, just long enough that she'd foolishly begun to think Kharkiv was the last time. Apparently not.

She gave herself twenty seconds. Twenty full seconds to sit, and shake, and scream inside the confines of her mind before bringing herself back to her center and directing her cold, clinical attention back to the problem at hand.

Her clothes were laid neatly over the back of a nearby chair, well away from the blood. Based on how her skin felt she was covered in gore and in need of a shower before she could get dressed. She propped a chair under the door knob as an extra precaution and then stripped off the slip, tugging at places where the blood stuck fabric to her skin. 

The water wouldn't get to the scalding hot temperatures she craved, but tepid got her clean just as quickly. She dressed with precise, efficient movements, then made sure she'd retrieved anything of hers strewn around the room. There wasn't much, just her shoes and a small clutch that contained a false ID and her hotel key.

In the creeping August heat, she knew it wouldn't be long before the smell of the body attracted attention, and she wanted to be as far away as possible before it did.

*****

_**March, 2000 ~ Marrakech, Morocco** _

On a good day, she knew that she was Natalia Alianova Romanova, a former agent of the Red Room, now an independent contractor. She could remember that she was a spy, and an assassin, even if most additional details on either of those points were at least blurred (or completely non-existent).

Her memories of the last two years were fairly clear (minus a few very notable moments she tried not to dwell on but which might've been becoming an obsession). She could remember the last "official" mark she'd killed on the Red Room's list and how she'd made it a point to do so bloodlessly. She didn't object to the blood in theory, but she hadn't had a change of clothing and wouldn't have gotten very far painted gore red.

So she'd killed the drug lord by breaking his neck and letting him fall from the balcony to the alley three stories below, to rest among the trash waiting there. Then she'd searched his offices for whatever cash she could find and slipped out the front door, rather than the back door her handlers had told her to use.

The streets in that part of Kaunas were well lit and crowded, even at that time of night because it was the weekend, and it had been easy enough for her to blend in.

Then she'd started running.

He hadn't had much money, not enough to get her past the border, so she'd quietly put herself on the market in rougher circles than what she'd been accustomed to dealing with. A gun runner in Brno who wanted a temporary enforcer to crowd out the competition, a smuggler in Kazakhstan who needed to make sure a shipment got from point A to point B without his business partner finding out (and she'd pointed out to him the easiest way to accomplish that was actually to be rid of the business partner) - she was careful with the money she received and made sure that she had the resources to vanish any time she thought the Red Room might be getting too close.

She sought out more and more powerful targets the more distance and time she put between herself and her former employers. She allowed herself to keep her name and her title because they gave her an in with the upper class clientele she preferred, and she grew to like the idea of letting her former owners know she wasn't afraid of them anymore.

Even though she very much was.

When a mid-level player HYDRA operative named Dmitri Strauss put out a bid on a SHIELD facility just a week after Odessa, she'd weighed the benefits against the risks and decided that the two million they were offering would put a great deal of distance between herself and her demons even if it did add SHIELD to her dance card, so she'd taken it. Like most of her operations, it had been textbook, flawless, and effective.

In retrospect, she might've underestimated SHIELD. Slightly.

The first two agents they'd sent after her had been jokes. She'd picked them off from a distance without even getting her hands dirty. The third and the fourth had required more finesse, some carefully administered drugs, and a fair amount of bloodshed.

The fifth through seventh had come at her at the same time, and it had turned into a cluster-fuck that took out part of an office building in Belgrade. They'd left her with a gash in her arm, a significant dent in her supply of explosives, and she'd made an unexpected trip out of Europe and into Morocco to hide until the furor died down.

It had certainly made her reevaluate where she put SHIELD on the world stage. They'd moved from a distant fifth to a close second on her list of major players, right beneath the Red Room itself. They had a reputation for being thorough, but not one for being particularly cruel. They weren't known for the kind of programs she'd been raised in, and tended to avoid some of the messier routes to get what they wanted. Which got her to thinking about what her next move ought to be.

It was ridiculous.

It was improbable.

It was _probably_ suicidal.

She had an awful lot of information on an great many people SHIELD was interested in. She just had to get a word in edgewise before the next agent pulled the trigger.

Staring out the window of her hotel room watching the sun set, she thought long and hard about what she was doing and about what she had done. She couldn't remember all of the things that her owners had ordered her to do. She suspected that she'd gone willingly enough at the time, but she couldn't even remember if she'd had regrets or concerns about ethics or morals - blunt truth said she probably hadn't.

Everything she'd done since was seared into her mind. She guarded her memories more closely than any riches because she understood they could be taken away just as easily. Even her regrets were precious because they were _hers_. In the back of her mind she replayed each and every moment she could remember since the day she escaped and paid the closest attention to each face and body she'd killed. She looked down at her hands to see if there was any sign of all the blood but they'd been scrubbed clean for the time being.

The Red Room was closing in on her and she'd been cocky and foolish to think she could cope with them on her own. She needed someone backing her with enough power to make them stay their hand, someone they might even be afraid of. Her best chance would be with SHIELD, and the worst case scenario with them was that she would be dead. Possibly a prisoner, but most likely dead.

That was infinitely better than what would happen if the Red Room recaptured her.


	2. Chapter 2

_**March, 2000 ~ New York City, New York, U.S.A.** _

“Coulson! My office!” Nick Fury stormed through the bullpen (the other Agents weren’t sure he moved any other way) without actually _looking_ at the handler in question. 

Coulson took it in stride, of course, and followed him, making sure the door caught behind him as they entered the office. He didn’t attempt to take a seat, and Fury didn’t offer him one. “You’ve heard about Belgrade,” Fury stated flatly. It wasn't a question. Everyone in SHIELD had heard about Belgrade at that point. 

“Yes, sir.” Coulson replied evenly.

“I lost three fucking men in that mess, Agent Coulson. Three more added on to the four we’ve sent out after her in the last six months, on top of the fire that started this whole thing.”

“Sir.” 

Fury arched an eyebrow at Coulson’s calm. “I need someone who can find her, draw a bead on her, and take her the fuck out.”

“Are you asking for my opinion, sir?”

“Who would you send, if you were running this mission, Agent?”

Coulson thought about it for all of five seconds before giving his answer, which made Fury suspicious as to what he was basing his opinions on. “Barton, sir.”

“Barton. The ex-carnie who fucked up the op in Georgia, and got all those kids killed?” Fury’d seen his file, he knew why SHIELD had offered him a job and a second chance, but that didn’t mean he had to like it, and he'd been annoyed by the 'deal' Coulson had cut with the man when he'd been recruited - particularly the part where he hadn't been consulted first.

“Sir, if I may?”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Coulson, I asked. What?”

“I have some… unofficial intel that indicates Barton took the shot on that particular operation against his own recommendation to his commanding officer, and had intel from the bomb specialist that the shot would be safe to take. General Ross needed a scapegoat, sir, and hung Barton out to dry. That said, regardless, he has the precise skill set I believe you need for this mission.”

“His psych evals are borderline.”

“But they do indicate that he’s not a sociopath.”

“We hire people who are.”

“That’s true." Then, "he doesn’t miss, sir. He’s the best shot we, or any other branch of the military, has access to. And this target is a one-shot, single opportunity. He’s also fluent in at least six Eastern European languages, including Russian and Ukrainian, conversant in another five, and has the patience of Job.”

“He hasn’t been cleared for solo operations.”

“I believe he would excel at it, sir. He has the appropriate training and motivation."

Fury looked skeptical, but finally closed the file and handed it across the desk. “You’re in charge of him, Agent. Don’t screw it up.”

*****

_**April, 2000 ~ New York, New York, U.S.A.** _

It had been the first time Clint had ever seen Coulson look hesitant about giving him an order, and it made him wonder what the hell was really going on.

He'd gotten the scuttlebutt about how Belgrade had gone down, and it hadn't been pretty. Three dead SHIELD agents among the eight total fatalities in the government building was nothing to sneeze at, and they were only the most recent. He'd wondered about some of the rumors coming out of the former Eastern Bloc, about how someone was systematically taking them out over there, someone good. Better than good, maybe. 

He'd heard the code name: _Black Widow_. At first it was said with almost a smug sense of amusement - just one more enemy that would fall under the well-oiled protective machine of SHIELD, with more than a subtle jab at the choice of code name. But tones changed. What had started out as a kind of joke had shifted into the sort of voice people used to mention the proverbial monster under the bed. Then the rumors had really gotten started. It wasn't one woman, it was several: a unit of shadow assassins, ex-KGB perhaps. Or it was one woman, but she was changed, altered somehow like the experiments the Germans carried out in World War II. Or hell, SHIELD had seen some odd things, and there were those who didn't discount the idea of magic and myth out of hand. Or. Or. Or.

The file was pretty straightforward, although there was a lot of black ink, more than he was used to seeing. He wondered how he was supposed to track down and kill someone when he couldn't even read half their file. It outlined a theoretical history made up of scarce documentation that said she worked for the USSR until it fell apart and she became a "free agent" - he translated that to "loose cannon, watch your step." They didn't have any information on who might've hired her to try and take out SHIELD targets, but the rehab facility in Frankfurt had gone up in an impressive pyrotechnics display that had left 20 agents dead and another 30 wounded. It had been the closest thing to a soft target SHIELD had, and they were out for blood. 

He hadn't expected to get the assignment. 

In the two years he'd been with the organization, he'd spent the first learning the ropes and going on soft missions as back-up while they gauged his effectiveness and loyalty. The second had been partnered missions that played to his most obvious strengths as an observer and a sniper. That's what they'd hired him for, after all. He'd killed three people in those two years, and each one of them had certainly deserved to die. Each kill was as textbook as possible, because each mission had been straight-up to start with. 

This mission was different, and he knew it, just like he knew that he was being given the job because they figured he was expendable. Maybe they were even playing him, sending him out as bait so that while she was slitting his throat or putting a bullet through his head another agent could come along behind her and catch her while her guard was down. Who knew? 

They could try. He doubted someone with her jacket would fall for something that simplistic. Also? The idea of being dead didn't really work for him just yet. 

With the precious little information he had to go on, he started reviewing what mission reports they had of the previous agents. He spent weeks listening, watching, and reading until he knew each and every move SHIELD had made, backwards and forwards. When the words started to run together for him, he took his bow down to the archery range and laid arrow after arrow dead center into the targets and let all the data mill around in the back of his mind until it started to make more sense.

After a particularly long practice session, he packed everything up and took it home, then carried the thick manila folders he'd accumulated into his kitchen and spread it all out across his table. 

Frankfurt. Bern. Sofia. Tallin. Kiev. Belgrade.

The photos were grainy, out of focus, never of her standing still. Most of the photos weren't even of her at all, but the results of her work, deliberate, bloody, thorough.

The SHIELD agents were more precise, he realized. With them, she'd simply taken them down as quickly and cleanly as she could. Some of the other jobs looked as though she'd been hired to make them into examples, and maybe she had. One or two didn't fit either mold - they were messy, wild, and he wondered who'd called those in. _Or,_ warned a little voice in the back of his mind, _if anyone else had called those marks, at all?_

The file was lean on personal data, and god knew they didn't have any psych profiles. The only reports of her in person were third hand and not enough to build a working model off of. They also were contradictory and incomplete. Her kills weren't signature, they were all over the map, and it was making their behavioral psych guys nuts. Which was really amusing to watch.

It just didn't tell him anything useful... unless it did. How did you track someone who was everyone? How would you anticipate the movements of someone who wasn't _anyone_?

He laid his forehead on the table, restraining the urge to actually beat his head against the cheap pressboard and linoleum. He knew he could track her if he could get the trail, find her just that one time to start him off, but their informants in Europe had been silent for weeks. He was convinced she wasn't even _in_ Europe anymore.

Groaning, he pushed away from the table and headed for his shower, stripping off his workout clothes as he went. The closest thing to a clean towel in the apartment was the one he'd been using for two days and it was still damp from the shower he'd taken that morning, but he grabbed it anyway. If the shower didn't clear his head, he'd have to give up for the night and hope for some kind of a lead in the morning.

He ended up spending another three hours with mission reports before finally turning in, and when he dreamed it was about a red headed woman in a blood red gown.

*****

_**Mid-May, 2000 ~ Marrakech, Morocco** _

A lucky break led him to Marrakech and with a little advanced recon he narrowed down the part of the city she was holed up in. 

In the end, he didn't have to. The screams that erupted from the marketplace started like a wave, moving from person to person as more of them realized what was going on and saw the bright sprays of blood against the canvas walls. She was a figure in motion just like he'd expected her to be, the gun in her hand placing bullets expertly through skulls, but without any obvious rhyme or reason. 

When the clip was empty, just seconds later, she went tearing down the alley, and there was no way he could make that shot as fast as the people around her were moving. The roofs were close enough that he was able to trail her for a little while, but he lost her as she headed under a wall into another part of the city.

He'd gotten a look at her face this time.


	3. Chapter 3

_**Mid-June, 2000 ~ Paris, France** _

A lucky break got him within about a mile of her in Marrakech around mid-May. By the time he tracked her to Paris in June, he’d decided she wasn’t going to just walk out into an undefended location where he could take the type of shot he preferred. No, she’d had too much training and was too damn paranoid for that (which he supposed was a contributing factor to how successful she was.) Coulson had warned him it was probably going to end up being an up close job, and he was okay with that. Not his first choice maybe, but he could do it.

Her paranoia extended to her living habits, which was why he’d been a frustrating step and a half behind her for three weeks. But complex as it was, there was an underlying pattern to her cover names, and by mid-morning on the second day he’d found a room registered to an Alycia Roberts-Noland that he was sure was _her_. 

Slipping into the hotel and swiping a master key-card had been ridiculously easy after some of the secured facilities he’d broken into. He’d cautiously hoped she would be there when he arrived, but while the room turned out to be empty there were enough clothes still around he figured she’d be coming back. 

He settled in to wait, sinking into the same calm, still place he used when he was lining up a shot, his gun sitting easily in his hand.

It took her three hours to come back from what looked like a work out - her now blond hair was still damp and she was wearing workout pants and a tank top along with a well-worn pair of sneakers. He could tell the second she realized he was in the room. There was a hair’s breadth of time that she could’ve turned and moved back into the hallway, probably with a half-decent chance of dodging a bullet from anyone else. Instead, she froze in place, her hand still on the door, staring straight at him despite the gun he held trained directly on her. 

Seconds ticked by, stretched out by the tension until they felt like hours. She didn’t look startled for more than a fraction of a moment, didn’t look angry or scared, just… she looked _tired_. Maybe even pained. Resigned, he decided and realized in that moment, she was going to let him shoot her. Then time seemed to resume, and her eyebrow arched and her hand slowly left the handle. Once released, the door swung shut behind her and it was the sound of the latch clicking home that seemed to break the rest of the spell. Her mouth narrowed and she was in motion again, but instead of coming at him like he’d expected, she headed for the space between the bed and dresser and reached down to pull out a duffel bag. 

It hit the bed with a muffled thump and she turned her back on him completely to rummage in the dresser. Curiosity was holding him back by then. He wasn’t afraid of her pulling a weapon; even if she tried, he’d be able to get off a shot first and put her down. The only thing she came up with was some clothing that she turned and shoved into the bag.

“Well?” she asked, and her English was slightly accented, but he couldn’t exactly say with what.

“You put your back to me. I can’t decide if you’re brave or stupid.”

She shrugged slightly, not bothering to turn back around. “You’ll either shoot me, or you won’t. I honestly don’t care which.”

“Really? Nothing in my file indicated that the Black Widow had suicidal tendencies.”

“I don’t.” She finished shifting the contents of the drawer into the duffel bag and zipped it up before moving to the bathroom counter to collect the small handful of toiletries she had there. “You were sent to kill me, correct? By SHIELD, if your accent is any indication.”

“Something like that.”

“Not that it matters. You obviously aren’t man enough to pull the trigger.”

He raised his eyebrows at the taunt. “So, you assume because I’m American I’ll what? Get pissed off by an insult to my masculinity?”

“It often works.” She stepped back into the room and studied him a moment. “No, then? Perhaps you’re just not cold enough to do it. Tell me Agent…”

“Braddock,” he supplied easily.

“Braddock. Not your real name of course, but it will do. Tell me Agent Braddock, is this your first mission?”

“Hardly. It'd have to be a piss-poor agency to send a rookie after someone like you.”

“So you’ve killed.” Statement, not question, he noticed, and nodded.

“I have. I don’t mind doing it again.”

“But you’ve been sitting here for three minutes, forty seconds, give or take, with the perfect opportunity, a kill that would net you any number of bounties and international acclaim, and you’ve hesitated. Why? Do you have some misplaced sense of chivalry? You have to know I wouldn’t hesitate to kill _you_.”

He watched her movements, coordinated and designed to look effortless, but there was an almost imperceptible tension around her eyes.

“I’ve killed women. I don’t have a problem with that, either.”

“Hoping I’ll sleep with you first? I suppose that could be arranged. Many men seem to enjoy the danger of trying to bed someone like me.”

He made sure to take an appreciative look up and down her body, but shook his head. “A tempting offer, but I’ll pass, thanks.”

The first, tiniest flash of annoyance passed over her face, and it amused the hell out of him. He doubted she’d often run across someone who would turn her down. In other circumstances, he certainly wouldn’t have. She was beautiful without even trying to be. When she put her mind to it, he knew she’d be an absolute knock-out. He also figured she wasn’t used to someone who could keep her even the least bit off-balance; she had control freak written all over her. He kind of liked keeping her on her toes, even as part of his mind was reminding him he worked for SHIELD and that he was supposed to be killing her right now.

“So where are you gonna go, this time?”

“You don’t really believe I’m going to tell you where I’m going. If there’s nothing else, Agent Braddo-”

The floor shifted beneath them, sending her to her knees and knocking him sideways.

He heard her cursing in Russian around the ringing in his ears and the screams he could hear coming from the hallway where the bomb had apparently gone off. 

“Friends of yours?” she asked, even as she was shifting around to the side of the bed away from the door and pulling out a gun she’d stashed there. The ringing was fading quickly and he could already make out angry shouting and gunfire from outside.

“Not my side,” he muttered, checking his clip, then training his gun on the door. “And I doubt they’d know I’m here.”

“No one’s supposed to know I’m here, either,” she pointed out, and he gave her an incredulous look.

“I did. I’ve been keeping tabs on you since Marrakesh.”

If he’d blinked, he’d have missed the brief widening of her eyes. “That's… most impressive, Agent Braddock.”

“Hell, call me Barton,” he threw out. “Might as well.”

There was a repetitive thudding sound that told them someone was systematically breaking down the doors to each room going up and down the hall, sometimes followed by gunfire, sometimes not. As it grew closer, they glanced back and forth at one another.

“What are the other escape routes?” he asked. He’d already picked out three.

“Window, hall, ceiling,” she named off quickly, the same ones he’d found. “But the window doesn’t have a ledge outside, and we’re four stories up. We won’t get very far if we break something on the way down, and at that height it’s virtually guaranteed.”

“If there’s fire on this floor or the one above it from the explosion, the ceiling ducts will be a death trap. I’d give us seventy-thirty odds of making it to a stairwell.”

“That leaves the hall.” Where there was still more gunfire, they both knew, but it was more likely they could shoot their way out in the chaos than either of their other options.

Another door banged open, this time one only a room or so away. “Or, we could let them come to us, then make a break for it,” he amended, and she nodded. They had more than enough firepower between the two of them. She reached under the bed and tossed a semi-automatic to him before pulling out another pistol to tuck into her waistband at the small of her back.

“How many guns have you got in here?” he muttered, but it was mostly a rhetorical question. He heard gunfire ricochet off the door knob outside just before the door came crashing inward.

Two men in black balaclavas and what looked to Clint like spec ops gear came through the door first, both had replaced the hand guns they'd been hearing and were armed with nasty looking machine guns. He dove for the floor behind the bed just in time to miss getting cut in half by the spray of bullets they opened with. She didn't bother to spare him a look, just started firing back, catching one of the invaders in the mid-section and shoulder and the other one in the head. He came up just as quickly as he'd gone down beside her, and nailed the first goon dead-center between the eyes. 

She left the duffel, tossed him a spare magazine, and took out the third guy who started to step into the room with a shot through the throat, brutal and efficient. 

"Let's not wait to find out how many more there are." 

He nodded, and together they made their way into the hallway where the emergency lights were flashing through the smoke, and the fire alarms were going off. No one else was left on the floor, at least not alive. Clint checked the stairwell and nodded that it was clear. The reached the bottom and he glanced through the small window in the door to the lobby. Fire and security were attempting to get people out of the hotel and onto the street as quickly and calmly as they could.

"Here, hang on," he wiped down the semi-automatic and stowed it under the stairs, then tucked the hand gun at the small of his back and held out his hand for her gun. "You can't hide a gun in those pants, flattering as they are."

Despite having run down several flights of stairs after a shoot out, she wasn't even winded, but seemed completely calm and collected. Reluctantly, she handed over her gun and he tucked it in next to his, then made sure his shirt and jacket covered them. "C'mon," he reached for her elbow and the door handle at same time, ushering her into the lobby and taking on the guise of a concerned, bewildered guest.

She had no trouble playing along. He exchanged a few words with one of the security guards in French that sounded native, if not precisely Parisian, and managed to glean that an armed terrorist cell had attacked the hotel, but they were securing the premises and would they please step outside where someone would, eventually, be by to take their statement? 

She stayed quiet, and if he hadn't _known_ better, he'd have absolutely believed she was just a shell-shocked young woman who'd been vacationing with her boyfriend and woken up to some kind of nightmare. She was even shaking ever so slightly, not enough to draw the attention of anyone, but enough to have anyone who did happen to notice her tag her as "victim" rather than "cool and poised spy". 

The street was a madhouse, of course, and he made sure to hug the building in case the entire point had been to draw them out into the open. He used the crowd to their advantage, and it wasn't hard to move with an entire group until they were skirting around the barricade at the corner and slipping down an alley that would lead them away from the location.


	4. Chapter 4

_**Mid-June, 2000 ~ Paris, France** _

She let him lead right up until they were far enough away that they didn't need the confused tourist cover, then she pulled away and shifted her gait so that she was slightly ahead of him. She hadn't expected him to be in her hotel room. She'd had a plan for their first face-to-face meeting, where she'd disarm him, maybe even seduce him, then convince him that she could be an asset to SHIELD. There were several files worth of information stored on a disk in a safe deposit box that she'd intended to send home with him to prove her worth to his superiors. She could still get to the box, could still manage the seduction, but first they had to shake the operatives that had tried to kill them in the hotel. He'd caught her off guard by showing up like he did - she hated it when she underestimated someone. It was sheer dumb luck that he _hadn't_ pulled the trigger when she'd hesitated, and she didn't like relying on fickle things like luck.

"You wouldn't happen to have a safe house nearby, would you?" he asked her after a few minutes.

She glanced back over her shoulder at him. "Unfortunately, no."

"What kind of European spy network - from _any_ country doesn't have a couple bolt-holes in Paris?"

"The kind that is one person, not a network, who hasn't spent any appreciable amount of time here," she snapped.

"Huh," he replied. 

Years of training was all that kept her from rolling her eyes. Instead, she made do with a vaguely disgusted look. "That begs the question, do _you_ have any kind of a safe house or other 'bolt-hole' in this city?"

He reached up and scratched at the back of his head and had the gall to look sheepish. 

"Not as such, no. That is, I don't happen to have the coordinates to one handy right at the moment. Nothing in the immediate neighborhood, at least."

She muttered something decidedly uncomplimentary in Russian and tried to map out the surrounding streets in her head. "And you call yourself a _spy_?"

"No, babe, I call myself an assassin. Which a little different than a spy. I'm more the see 'em and shoot 'em type than the wine and dine 'em sort."

" _Don't_ call me 'babe'."

"Fine. What would you prefer? Blondie? Wido-" her hand came up and clapped over his mouth, then stayed there.

"If you don't shut up we will be found, very quickly. Is that what you want? Because if they find us and somehow manage to take me, I will make sure they take you, too."

It was the first time she'd really looked him in the eyes, at this close a distance. There, behind the charm and the tendency to run off at the mouth, she found a cold edge. It wasn't quite as honed as hers was, but she was fairly confident she could count on one hand the number of people as cold as she'd been trained to be. He must have realized what she was doing, maybe even guessed what she was looking for, because he let slip his reins for just a moment and let her see more. 

More was enjoyment rather than guilt, pleasure about what he did rather than pain. Not always - there would occasionally be regret over what he was ordered or had decided to do, but overall, yes. He liked his work. Warmth flushed through her chest and her breath caught, only slightly, a microscopic pause, but somehow she thought he probably noticed. 

Slowly, she took her hand away, and rocked back from the balls of her feet so there was more space between them. "You can call me Natasha. For now. It's as good as anything else."

His grin was vaguely predatory. Oh yes, he'd noticed. "I take it from your reaction, those weren't friends of yours?"

"They were carrying PP-19 Bizons. Those haven't made it that far out of Russia yet, and they were breaking into my room. So yes, I am assuming they were coming after me."

He gave her an appreciative look. "Girl knows her guns. Nice."

The look she gave him was both terrifying and yet still seemed to amuse him. She could tell by the way his shoulders tightened, but the corners of his mouth fought to turn slightly upwards.

"So, any idea why you're Miss Popular all of a sudden? Or do they want you dead for the same reasons my guys do?"

She slipped by him and got as close as she could to the end of the alley without opening herself up to the street beyond, looking back and forth to try and find any hint of someone following them.

"I'd say they probably want their property back," she murmured, soft enough he almost missed it.

"Property, huh? I'm gonna guess you didn't stash it in your room."

"Don't be an idiot."

Coming back over to him, she changed the subject. "Do you speak Bulgarian?"

"Fluently"

"Well, I need you to speak it badly."

He didn't miss a beat, and seemed content to let her set the cover. That was certainly a point in his favor. 

"With a heavy accent badly, or-"

"Stupid America tourist badly," she clarified and he grinned. 

"Profession?"

She considered it for a moment. "Writer."

"Published?"

"Not really. A few pieces for obscure travel guides, perhaps."

"What about you?"

"I'm a student on break. We met in Varna three weeks ago and fell madly in love so we're wandering around Europe for awhile. Really, I'm leading you on for your money, but you don't know that."

"If I'm not published, where'd I get my money from?"

"You're a rich American. Why would I care?"

"Blowing money left by an uncle, then. Not used to having it, don't really know how to handle it, and don't actually have much left. Not that I'm telling _you_ that. But it'll give us something to fight about, later."

She nodded. It was good, it would work. She could already see him shifting how he held himself, letting his shoulders relax and roll forward just little bit, his head tilt down, and his arms loosen. His fingers started drumming lightly against his leg. 

"You gonna take me down if I touch you?"

"Our cover wouldn't be very convincing if you didn't," she scoffed. "As long as someone is watching, do as you please."

"Alright. What's the game plan?"

"I picked this part of the city because the streets are close and winding. It's hard for a sniper to get a shot. There's a marketplace about three blocks southwest where we can get some other clothes and sundries. I want to avoid public transportation until we're at least a few miles from here."

He swept a hand out in the direction of the main street. "After you, then," he grinned. This time she did roll her eyes, because she figured a silly fortune-hunting girl from Dobrich would be inclined to.

*****

They stepped easily into the flow of people on the street - no one seemed to be in a particular hurry and she supposed that crowd control had already started to dissipate the gawkers near the hotel. As she had promised, they found a small but vibrant open air market within a mile of where they'd started and she wove them through the people and stalls, occasionally stopping to chat with a merchant or picking up an odd here and an end there. To an outside observer, there wasn't any particular method to her madness, but Clint could see that she was building up a wardrobe to go with whatever new cover was percolating in her head. Occasionally she would grin brightly and shove something into his arms, leaning into him with a lingering touch. He obliged, throwing an arm around her shoulders, pointing every so often at something that caught his eye, while still keeping most of his attention on the people around them and any potential threat.

Two hours later, they were sitting at a small cafe having lunch. She'd pointed out with infinite practicality that they needed to eat, and it would look far more suspicious if they didn't take a break from shopping for a meal. Being at one of the little outdoor tables made his shoulder blades shift uncomfortably but it wasn't that open given how close the buildings were to one another and the cheerful awning above their heads. He knew good and well she hadn't let her guard down either, but nothing in her body language gave that alertness away and he was developing a newfound appreciation for just how good she really was.

"So how do you see this going?" he finally asked. Other than their conversation in the alley she hadn't given him any kind of hints about what she intended to do or where she intended to go. He wasn't even sure why she was still with him, except that he had the guns and she probably figured he could shoot her before she could escape.

But she also hadn't tried to take the guns away.

"You were sent to kill me," she said evenly. "So far, you've both spared my life and helped to save it. Either you're extremely bad at following orders, or you have a counter-proposal. Or," she amended, "you are simply waiting for a better opportunity to follow through, but I somehow doubt that." There was that eyebrow again, gracefully rising in a way that conveyed both skepticism and a question.

"Look - this wasn't supposed to be a dead-or-alive type of an affair. They don't want you brought in, they want you taken out of the equation."

"I assumed as much."

"If you were suicidal, why didn't you just hang out back at the hotel?" his voice was relaxed, flippant even, but his hand tightened on the ceramic. “You were going to let me kill you. Why?”

“I had a moment.”

He looked at her for a long time, trying to puzzle out what she was saying. Finally, unsure of what he was seeing, he outright asked “What do you mean?”

“You watched me for at least a month before you made contact. You followed me across three cities and two continents without losing track. You’re very good; no one else has been able to do that since I was a little girl. I’m not sure I could say you’re my equal, but you are much better than anyone else they’ve ever sent. Let's just say it gave me pause.” She was carrying on this conversation the same way he imagined she would make small talk about the weather, and to a passerby, that’s what he was sure it looked like they were doing. Just making small talk, maybe flirting a little, because she had this secretive half-smile on her face that he knew was an act. Her new pants and blouse were the picture of French casual-yet-dressy, a nice contrast to his jeans and leather jacket. It was a little bit outside his experience. She picked her cup back up and took another sip of her espresso. “I have a question for you, Agent Barton.”

“Alright.” He shifted in his chair, matching her more relaxed pose. “Shoot. As it were.”

“What are you planning to tell your handlers?”

“Don’t know yet. I guess that depends on you.”

“I’m not about to stand still for your gun again, if that’s what you’re thinking. That inclination has passed.”

“Good.”

“Good?”

“Maybe I don’t want you dead just yet.”

That earned him a frown.

"Why are you still here?"

"If I try to run, you will shoot me, yes? And you currently have all the guns." 

He had no doubts that if she wanted to, she could come up with an effective way of getting away from him. He might - _might_ \- be able to kill her first, but based on what he'd seen her do, she had better than good odds. More to the point, she had to know he was aware of that. There was something else going on, it was niggling at the back of his brain. There was some other angle she had to be playing, because nothing else made sense.

“Look, Natasha, or whatever your name really is - let me talk to my handler. Let me… I don’t know. You could always come work for us, you know.” He had no idea how he would ever get them to agree to that, but it jumped into his brain and he suddenly wanted that, more than he’d wanted anything in a long time. 

Her eyes narrowed and he wondered just how much of that he'd let slip across his face. "Fine. You see what kind of deal they're willing to make."

_Bingo,_ he thought. She was on the run, obviously from more than just SHIELD. He wondered what might make her desperate enough to come to them, knowing they also wanted her dead.

"The hit on the base - that wasn't personal at all, was it?"

"Of course not. I was hired to do a job. I did it."

"So you don't have anything against SHIELD? No grudge, no 'kill all the Western capitalists' bullshit?"

She tilted her head. "No. Why should I? I'm a business woman, Agent Barton. My business is information, and occasionally assassination. If you think I have any greater loyalty than myself, well. You'd be sadly mistaken. I certainly wouldn't be here, if that were the case."

"So you're willing to make a deal? Trade information for a new job?"

Something changed. Her eyes changed just a little, softening slightly. "I'm willing to trade information and my services for something more precious than a paycheck. What I'm looking for is... safety, I suppose you'd say."

"Safety?"

"Very powerful people would very much like to get their hands on me, Agent Barton. For numerous reasons. I know that I won't be able to survive on my own indefinitely. People with these kinds of resources aren't the type you can just disappear from. They want me, and they will find me. But if I belong to an agency such as SHIELD, they might think twice about it."


	5. Chapter 5

_**New York, New York, U.S.A.** _

"Sir, I have Barton on the phone." Coulson's voice was, as always, calm and even through the intercom system, but Fury had learned to read the few tells the man had - physical and vocal - years ago. He didn't sound like it was good news. Barton was on the phone, so he wasn't _dead_ , but that still left a whole host of other possibilities.

"Come in," he barked and punched the button to deactivate the locks on the door and Coulson stepped inside. His cell phone was braced between his ear and his shoulder and he was thumbing through a stack of files.

"Hold, please," Coulson said, and thumbed the phone on mute. He straightened, and presented Fury with the topmost file. "Barton is in Paris."

"Is she dead yet?"

"Not... exactly, sir."

Fury arched his eyebrow and stared unblinking at the younger man. "What _exactly_ is she, then, Agent?"

"Barton would like to bring her in, sir. As an asset."

The other brow winged up to join the first. "Excuse me?"

Coulson took a breath, the only outward sign of concern. "Agent Barton engaged the target and made a... judgment call. He feels that she would be an asset to the agency both because of her extensive knowledge of the operatives and organization working in the Eastern Bloc and because of her rather unique skill set."

"She wants to defect? After she blew up one of our goddamn facilities, and killed over two dozen of our people in the last year and a half, she wants to _defect_?"

It was a microscopic twitch, right at the corner of Coulson's mouth. "I believe he talked her into it. Sir."

"If I didn't know who I was talking to, I would say this was some sort of elaborate prank. Since I know who _you're_ talking to, I still haven't ruled it out. You're telling me the goddamn fucking Black Widow wants to come in?"

"Yes, sir. And I don't believe Barton is playing a prank, sir."

"Tell him to cool his heels and keep an eye on her. This'll have to go above me. Goddamn stupid-ass cowboy agent - tell him to keep an eye on her for a couple days, see if she hangs in. If she leaves his sight, tries to bolt, or anything else, he shoots her - you tell him that. Get out of my office, Coulson," he finished on a near-snarl. Coulson obeyed and only once he was out the door, did Fury allowed himself to sigh deeply.

Personally, he didn't want that woman anywhere besides a pine box, but this wasn't the kind of call he was authorized to make all on his own, never mind that Barton seemed to think it was _his_ purview to do so. He'd never liked the "deal" Coulson had struck with the former soldier, didn't like not having complete authority over his people. He had a very good guess what was swaying the man's thoughts in this instance, and that would be something he'd deal with when they got him back - _if_ they got him back. Never should've sent him on this mission in the first place, Fury thought angrily as he sent a message to prep a secured communications room to address the Council. He hated having to do that, but Romanov was too big a player not to bring them in on the decision.

*****

"Director Fury," the woman said in a voice as impatiently bored as ever. "To what do we owe the pleasure?"

Shadow faces, he thought to himself, no identifying information for any of them except the secure code to bring him to their attention.

"We've been tracking the Black Widow."

"Yes, we're aware." Lefty, this time - so named because he always showed up on the far left screen.

"She's approached one of our agents and asked to be brought in."

There was a long pause. They were only silhouettes, he couldn't even see the micro-expressions he was so adept at reading. There was nothing to give them away. Just the ticking of the clock in his head as long moments passed.

"She wants to defect?"

"Seems to. He's still got tabs on her, we can still eliminate her."

"No." The Woman again. "If she is willing to defect, to share what she knows about her former organization and her more recent... business partners, then that's information we could use. She's a valuable weapon, Director Fury. If she decides that she wants to be useful, will you be able to control her?"

Fury ran through scenarios in his head lightning fast. He knew next to nothing about her, her motivations or her weaknesses. If she fucking had any, and he wasn't convinced she did. He did not have enough data to know the best way to handle her, but he was a confident man and ultimately, people were people. He'd be able to find those hooks and levers, figure out how to manipulate and shape her actions just like he did with all of his people. The situation frankly sucked, but he could work with it if he had to.

"If I have to, yes."

"Bring her in. Debrief her, evaluate her, retrain her if you like. She'd be quite a feather to have in your cap, Director."

A deadly feather, he thought to himself, but outwardly he made a show of agreement.

 

*****

_**Paris, France** _

He'd seen better accommodations since signing on with SHIELD, but the apartment Phil directed him to certainly wasn't the worst by any stretch of the imagination. It was a single room, which was just as well and made it easier to keep an eye on her. 

"I'm supposed to cuff you," he said bluntly. "It's a cliche, but the radiator might work out."

"SHIELD policy?"

"Apparently. On the other hand, I'm pretty sure if you were going to run, or try and kill me, you'd have done it already."

"Probably."

He gave her a long considering look, and while he supposed it could be taken as sexual, he was actually weighing his options. She'd had numerous opportunities to kill him since they'd started the day. It might be less messy now that they were here alone, but it would've been easier to have left him in the busy side streets of the city at some point during the day.

She'd said she wanted SHIELD. His gut told him to believe her. His _brain_ even told him to believe her, given the evidence he had. 

"We won't be needing the cuffs," he decided. 

"I'm so relieved," she said dryly.

He went over to the small table and rifled through the bag of provisions they'd amassed on their way - some bread and cheese along with a bottle of wine he'd chosen that she'd arched an eyebrow at. He'd just shrugged and said something about "when in Paris". 

Clint heard her approach, and was aware of it when she stepped into his personal space to peer over his shoulder. She was warm pressed up against his back, one of her hands just under his shoulder blade. "It's not much of a meal," she commented.

He resisted the urge to lean into her. "You were getting a little too paranoid to go out to eat." He pointed out that he'd noticed mostly to see if he could unbalance her. He had a sneaking suspicion she was trying to unbalance him.

"Was I, now?" There was a soft, dark quality to her voice that made both alarm bells and his hormones go off. He looked over his shoulder at her and was glad he hadn't taken his sunglasses off yet.

"What exactly are you doing, Natasha?"

The hand at his back slid up to his shoulder, then down over his arm and the leather of his jacket. She pressed firmly to turn him around and gave him just enough of a push that it was natural for him to sit down in the chair behind him. Quickly, gracefully, she slid into his lap. Her fingers brushed across his face, over his lips, while her other hand was taking away his sunglasses and setting them to the side. He spread his legs slightly to give her a better area to balance against, and prided himself on not jumping when she pressed herself right up against his rapidly forming erection. 

"We have some time to kill. I know you're interested," she whispered in his ear, and hell yes, he was interested. "So we might as well amuse ourselves."

She had her hand against his neck, curving back to pulling him towards her as she leaned in for a kiss.

Just before their lips brushed, he shifted, and then he had one hand around her wrist and the other on her arm and tugged just enough to dump her rather unceremoniously onto the floor as he stood back up.

"I'm interested, but not stupid. And you don't get to play me," he said flatly. The expression on her face was briefly murderous, but as he watched she smoothed it away.

Clint gave himself thirty seconds to get everything under control before he held out a hand. It took another long pause before she reluctantly reached up and took it, and let him help her to her feet. 

"Now," he said. "How about dinner?"

*****

By unspoken agreement, they ended up on the floor, facing one another, with the bottle of wine and two glasses between them. He leaned back against the foot of the bed while Natasha sat against the wall just below the window. They weren't quite touching, but they could still pass the bottle of wine back and forth. There was only the one, not enough to get either of them drunk, but they were downing it like shots, as if by pretending they could make it something harder. It had become their own twisted version of two truths and a lie, only there weren't really any rules, just an open ended challenge. So far, he'd claimed everything he'd told her was the truth, except for a ridiculous anecdote about basic training. The thing was... she couldn't tell. And she'd never had trouble spotting a liar before. For her own part, she'd been mixing it up, at least insofar as she could say anything about her past was true or not.

When it came to her, he was remarkably, frighteningly accurate at deciphering what she was saying.

"I was raised in the circus, I have an older brother, and I was 19 the first time I killed a man."

Her eyes narrowed as she watched him speak, trying to discern the lie. "The circus would be too obvious... but really? You are a cliche, aren't you?" she continued before he could answer. "You didn't kill your first man at age 19." Something had twitched hear his eye when he'd said it, a tiny thing.

He raised his glass in a salute and downed the "shot" he was holding. Merlot just didn't have the same kick as bourbon. "No, I didn't.

"I was 17."

Her own glass froze halfway to her mouth and her eyes widened. His eyes had darkened, developed shadows when he'd admitted it and regret seemed to be an old acquaintance of his.

"I was... maybe 10. We didn't count birthdays the way you do." It felt like the right thing to do, giving him that piece of her puzzle. She didn't have a clear memory, and she might've been as young as 8 or as old as 12, but it was in that area of time. 

She looked up at him in time to see horror writ across his features and it made her smile in a way that was a little bitter, a little amused, and in no small part resigned. 

"That is one of the least horrific things I could tell you, Agent Barton. He was a thug and he deserved it."

The laugh he managed was a choked, almost animal sound. "Yeah," he said, finally nodding. "Yeah, mine was too."

"Did you enjoy it?" She didn't mean to ask that, it just came tumbling out and inside her mind she flinched. Outwardly she remained completely calm.

"I was glad he stopped what he was doing. That I could stop him before he hurt me. When I realized he was dead... it freaked my shit."

"So you didn't plan it."

"Did you?"

"It was an assignment. It was planned for me." Flashes of a yellow party dress, a cake knife tucked in between tulle and lace, then the shock on the man's face just before the blood.

"Did _you_ enjoy it?"

"I enjoyed doing my job well," she said flatly and then picked up the bottle and drank the rest in one long swallow.

Without the pretense of a drinking game, their conversation drifted, until there was more silence than words and she found herself dozing off sitting upright.

"When?" she managed in between the drifting. Maybe it was because she was sure he wasn't going to kill her tonight, maybe it was having another person keeping an eye out, but she felt the weight of months of exhaustion and running trying to drag her down. 

"Tomorrow. We're supposed to meet the extraction team at 1000 hours. I'll have to cuff you before we leave," he added, almost as an afterthought.

"Alright," she agreed softly and dragged her fingers through her hair. "Floor or bed?"

"You take the bed, get some sleep. You'll probably need it."

Images of what she was expecting the morning to bring ran through her head and some of it must've showed on her face because his expression hardened. "I don't know what you're expecting from us, but... look. It won't be pleasant. It's not going to be a cakewalk - they're pissed at you and don't trust you, and they'll need to find out what you know and what you want from them. But... there are things SHIELD won't do. We _don't_ do, alright?"

She wondered if he was picturing little girls in bloody party dresses, or if he had a completely different scale of horror - she rather suspected the later. Regardless, she'd made her decision and she did believe that SHIELD wouldn't do anything worse than what the Red Room had done. And certainly nothing as bad as what they would do, now. So she stood and walked over to the bed just behind him, then lay down fully clothed on top of the covers. She would take sleep where she could get it, would take protection where she could find it, whatever it took to survive - not just physically, but as _herself_.

And maybe eventually, she could even begin to make up for some of the things she'd done.

Surprisingly, instead of keeping her on guard, the sound of his breathing helped lull her to sleep.

*****

The next morning he let her guide him to the bank where she was keeping several disks worth of intel in a safe deposit box. He remembered her comment on the first day about someone wanting their property back, and wondered if that was what they'd been talking about. Somehow, the more he learned about her, the more he doubted it.

Coulson was waiting for them outside a Metro stop near the edge of the city. Clint found himself apologizing to her when he locked the wrist and ankle cuffs Coulson produced once they were in the car.

"It's fine," she said flatly, and he could see she was back in what he was coming to think of as "Black Widow" mode. Gone was the tired, unsure woman who'd given him a look into her background, now she was the consummate asset, calm, poised, and patiently waiting as if she wasn't the least bit worried about what was coming next.

Once they were on the private SHIELD jet, Coulson relieved him and took her to another part of the plane to secure her for the trip back to New York. He wanted to wave, or say goodbye, or something, but even if it was just Coulson watching he had the feeling it was important to have his game face on, so he gave her a brief nod before turning away.


	6. Chapter 6

_**New York, New York, U.S.A.** _

Clint wasn't expecting company when he finally reached his apartment after a day and a half of debriefing. In retrospect, he supposed he should have.

"You fucked her, didn't you?"

He made a deliberate show of not reacting to the man sitting on his couch like he owned the place. Instead he headed to his kitchen, chucking his duffel bag into the corner near the washing machine and carefully setting his weapons bag on his table.

"Can't say that I did, sir."

"You expect me to believe that, Barton? After the stunt you just pulled?" Fury rose, stalked his way into the kitchen. It was a small room, not designed for two full grown men. Clint had never been one to let people physically intimidate him, and while he had a healthy respect for the Director, he wasn't afraid of him. 

So he pulled two bottles of beer out of the fridge, shoved one at Fury and took the other one back into the living room, sprawling across his couch so that the other man couldn't sit back down.

"I don't care what you believe, sir. I didn't sleep with her, unless we're redefining that to mean being in the same room when actual sleep was happening. You did tell me not to let her out of my sight, after all."

This was another reason Fury didn't like him much, Clint decided. He never had known when to keep his mouth shut. But the accusation rankled him just a bit, the idea that obviously he'd been making his decisions with his dick instead of his head. Unless he was in a SHIELD facility, in uniform and on the clock, he was going to talk to the Director however he goddamn pleased.

So maybe the sleep deprivation had left him a little bit... edgy.

He knew he was being studied, and that Fury was probably doing that "not really psychic or at least you can't prove it" shit he was so good at. Since he actually _wasn't_ lying to him, he wasn't too worried about it.

"She's been moved to the main HQ for debrief and evaluation." 

Clint mentally gave himself a gold star for not grinding his teeth. He had an inkling what that would probably entail, and didn't like the idea of her having to go through it. She also wasn't exactly in anyone at SHIELD's good graces, which wouldn't make it any easier.

"I need you in Santiago."

At that, Clint raised both eyebrows and didn't bother to hide his displeasure. "Seriously?"

"We've got a wiretap and observation set up on a money laundering racket that might be funding some weapons dumps from the former USSR. Coulson'll have your mission brief in the morning. You're meeting him at 0800 at HQ."

He vanished as stealthily as he'd arrived and Clint looked up at his ceiling as if it could explain anything to him. 

"Fuck me."

 

_**Same Day ~ Somewhere Over the Atlantic Ocean** _

Being on board the SHIELD ship was unsettling, Natasha decided. She had endured her share of debriefings, of interrogations, both from hostiles and her own people. She didn't remember details of most of her Red Room debriefings except for right at the very end, but she had a general sense that they had occasionally been... unpleasant. Since she was at best a hostile asset, she certainly wasn't expecting to be served tea and sandwiches while they questioned her.

On the outside, nothing belied her calm when they led her into a detention area in SHIELD medical. She had even steeled herself to expect them to turn on her, once she was in their custody. She knew they weren't happy about the hospital fire. She was prepared, if necessary, to break her way out of SHIELD just like she had the Red Room, and to endure whatever they put her through in the interim.

Ice still settled low in the pit of her stomach at the sight of the gurneys and monitors, IVs and prep trays. The agent escorting her, who Barton had referred to as "Coulson" indicated she should sit on a nearby exam table and she forced herself to do so gracefully, without hesitation. They’d given her scrubs after they searched her, the kind that itched and reminded her of where she was and what sorts of things might be about to happen.

If they knew this much about her fears, they had better intel than they had any right to. She kept telling herself it was much more likely chance than design and she sat, calmly, through the examination and the blood draws, very aware not only of the armed agents surrounding her, but that her every move was being observed, evaluated, and considered. When the nurse came back through with a loaded hypodermic needle and an IV lead it took all of her considerable control and acting skills not to bolt outright or show any fear.

She didn't ask what they were giving her, because she wasn't about to let them see any hesitation or chink in the armor she'd so carefully forged. 

Coulson led her to another room, this one more in line with the interrogation rooms she'd seen in the past. There was a table and two chairs, all bolted into place, a two-way glass posing as a mirror that didn't fool anyone, and blank walls, a blank floor, and a tiled ceiling. She doubted the ceiling would actually give her access to anything useful. There was a steady stream of cool air blowing from a vent near the ceiling and as it moved over her exposed skin she realized she was starting to sweat. 

As soon as she stepped into the room, Coulson said someone would be coming in to speak with her soon, then closed the door with a metallic click that echoed louder than it should have in the mostly empty space.

Natasha was beginning to feel like she was mostly empty space. The drug, whatever they'd given her, was starting to take effect, she realized. With precise, controlled motions she sat down in the chair before she lost the power to stand on her own. Her vision wasn't swimming, but everything was starting to seem brighter, sharper. Her skin was hypersensitive and the rough fabric of the scrubs was becoming even more uncomfortable.

There wasn't a clock on the wall and her sense of time was thrown off. She couldn't tell if she sat there for minutes or hours before the door opened again. It sounded like a gunshot.

"Natasha Romanov. AKA the Black Widow."

The man standing in front of her was tall and dressed head to toe in black tac gear, even down to the black patch covering his left eye. She bit down on her tongue to keep herself from responding.

"My agent seems to think you'd like to join up."

A long pause, and it took her a minute to work out that he was waiting on a response from her.

"Yes," she croaked out. Words, emotions, fears all tried to bubble up, as if by speaking she'd cracked open a seal that had been holding everything it. Part of her training had been resistance to chemicals like sodium pentothal, but none of the drugs they'd ever pumped into her held a candle to whatever SHIELD had concocted.

"And why, Miss Romanov, is that?" He stood almost casually, hands clasped behind his back, regarding her steadily.

What she wanted to say was that she was bored. She wanted a change of pace, a new challenge. Pretty lies that made her seem calm and logical, not terrified and desperate.

"Pr... protection. Can't run anymore," she stuttered on her words. The sweat was running down into her eyes which didn't make sense because she was so very cold. 

"I'd say we're the one's you need to be running from. We're the ones who've been trying to eliminate you, after all."

"No. They're worse. The Red Room... no. I won't go back and be unmade again." She hadn't noticed that she'd switched to Russian until he'd responded in kind. She knew over twenty languages in whole or in part, but could not remember any of them, just her mother tongue.

"Unmade, huh? And what does that mean, exactly?"

"Needles. Drugs. Pain. They take you out, put someone else back in and you forget... everything."

It went on like that. She didn't know how long, wasn't aware of anything else but his voice and the turmoil in her head. All her nightmares, her hopes and fears and they were spilling out all around her for this man, along with information - far more than she'd ever intended to give them.

In some ways it was worse, much worse than anything anyone else had ever done.

By the time another orderly with hard, steady hands took her arm to give her another injection, she was on the floor in the corner of the room, wrung out and bled dry. This time the world spun almost as soon as the drug hit her bloodstream, and it was blessed relief when she passed out.

*****

When she woke, she was sore, hungover and felt dry and brittle. The cuffs were gone and she was lying on her side in what passed for a normal (if military grade) bed. The lights were off in the room, but she could see the glow from the low lights in the hall through what she imagined was a reinforced window on the door. Some kind of holding cell then, she realized and tried to sit up. She wasn't sweating anymore and the sense of distortion and lack of control was gone. Natasha was relieved, but angry. That had been unexpected. The fear had been unexpected. 

She wondered if she'd passed their test, while a part of her was grateful that it hadn't been Barton in the room with her. Not that he couldn't have been observing from outside, or even over a video feed. All of SHIELD could very well know her deepest secrets by now, and at this juncture there wasn't anything for her to do about it.

There was a bottle of water on the floor by the bed and after a brief hesitation she decided to risk it. They'd already demonstrated they could poison her if they wanted to, the water was either safe or not but she needed the hydration.

A guard rapped her knuckles on the glass and at Natasha's nod, opened the door. "Director Fury has requested to see you once you were awake. If you would follow me?"

No one tried to cuff her. They led her down several nondescript hallways, past what looked like a cafeteria across from what sounded like it was probably a gym, until they came to a locked section that required the lead guard to use both a retinal scan and a complicated code to unlock. The hallway narrowed dramatically, and she was delivered unceremoniously to an office.

Inside, sitting calmly behind the desk, was the man who had interrogated her. He nodded to the guards and they left - she heard the door lock behind her.

"Romanov, have a seat."

She did so, never taking her eyes off of him. "What did you give me?" There was no point in hedging or dissembling. He'd already seen her at her worst and most vulnerable. She was fairly certain she would never forgive him for it.

"Special SHIELD recipe. We needed to be sure what your motives were. I'm not about to invite the snake into my den without knowing whether or not it's going to bite me first."

"And what, Director Fury, did you conclude?"

"That you're dangerous as hell."

"Indeed." She felt it slipping over her, the mask she used to bargain with war lords and terrorists, with the mad and dangerously determined. Fury, she decided, fit all of those criteria. "So now you'll, what? Neutralize the threat?"

"Hardly. I've decided it's in our best interest to have you working for our side. You wanted the protection and opportunities of SHIELD? Fine. You've got them. I'll give you your warning now, and then we're done with that.

"You ever try anything, try to sink my ship or kill my people? You cannot hide, you will not survive. You don't get any strikes, you're just out. Got me?"

"I understand you perfectly, Director."

"You'll be on probationary status, just like any other independent contractor we bring on as a new agent. The next few weeks we'll need to evaluate you and you'll have to qualify on all major weapons and skill sets. You're also required to speak with a registered SHIELD counselor on a regular basis until we've got you cleared through to field duty."

She would've sworn she didn't flinch, but his gaze narrowed. "I'm going to tell you this exactly once. There was no one else watching when you were in that room. There is no recording of that conversation. You and I are the only two people who know what happened in there, and that's not going to change. I don't give a fuck what you tell the counselor, so long as you determine you're able-bodied and psychologically healthy enough to be out there in the field. I'm well aware that you're going to lie to them, just like you want to lie to me and everybody else. Don't lie to yourself. You need time, you need to bench yourself, you come talk to me and we'll work with that. Play nice, don't scare the civvies, and we'll all do just fine."

Her stomach clenched, with determination this time instead of fear. She was standing on the edge of a precipice, looking down over the empty air, and she could either fall or fly.

She wasn't ready to fall.

"Then I'm in."


End file.
